


John Wick: Altum VI

by Small Fortunes (SmallFortunes)



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallFortunes/pseuds/Small%20Fortunes
Summary: Post-mission gone wrong; a tense, almost erotic encounter sees aggravated assassin, John Wick receive an ex-colleague on a rain-soaked evening within the confines on his penthouse at New York's Continental Hotel.
Relationships: John Wick & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	John Wick: Altum VI

* * *

He’d expected her hourly.

Even under the deluge of New York City’s torrential rain. It had been like this for four days now. Constant, pounding. Flooding the streets and overrunning the gutters. The people scattered under black umbrellas determined to attend their duties and return to their homes, hot drink in hand. To rest before fireplaces or heaters so that they may somehow delude themselves into believing that the chill that swept through the city was purely due to this horrific weather. By God, they were wrong. He was the storm. Rolling thunder that reached out to explode across the very sky. He seared, flexing his back beneath black Italian silk, scotch glass in hand. His reflection diffused in the rain splattered windowpane by the dim light of the chandelier that glittered overhead. Winston had once more provided the finest Penthouse for his most illustrious, (or was it infamous?) guest. When the silver Rolls Royce pulled up to the Continental curb, he pushed himself away from the window frame, setting down the lead crystal glass he’s nursed for an hour and absently sought to adjust his gold cuff links. Counting the heartbeats, imagining the sound of her stiletto heels as they mounted the stairs and strolled the lobby, trailing footprints of rainwater against Winston’s expensive marble tile.

When the black phone rang upon the sideboard, he expected it too and answered before the first ring had completed. Charon’s richly silken voice proffered the information he had preordained.

“Sir, Ms. Canfeza Patrone requests an audience.”

Silence… he was studying the cut upon his lower lip on the mantelpiece mirror. Only recently healed, he’d bitten at it unconsciously. Now it bled.

“Send her up.”

He replaced the phone to its antique receiver and strode like a great, black panther across the Persian rug at his feet, settling himself upon the burgundy leather lounge the elegant room afforded; and slowly rolled his head from side to side. Feeling the tension in his neck and spine.

An Adonis upon his throne. He’d left the door unlocked on purpose.

A minute passed. Then another… and another after it.

There! The ring of the elevator bell in the distance, doors opening and closing with mechanical precision of purpose and footfalls across rich carpet. Yes… a woman’s footfalls. Deliberate though hesitating. She didn’t want to be here anymore than she had to. He knew too well what it was to know you were walking into the mouth of the dragon’s den.

A knock at the door. He sighed hotly.

“Monsieur?”

“Penétrér.” His choice of reply was as deliberate as the half-lidded glare he fixed upon the door.

Again, hesitation… a heartbeat passed. But she yielded. The way she always did for him.

Canfeza crossed the threshold dressed in a magnificent gown of red and black silk and damask that trailed to the very floor in a train that flared like the mouth of a lily. The olive flesh of her cleavage, throat and arms exposed. Black pearls adorned her earlobes, wrists and neck. Her russet hair, pulled back in a Grecian style, braided high away from her face. Those lips, full and sensuous, painted in deep ruby. Her eyes darted about the room as she shut and locked the door behind her.

 _‘Good girl.’_ He thought. He’d only ever had to tell her once. They locked eyes across the room and he heard it. Quiet but audible as she sighed and shivered, stuck by his elegance, in awe of his grace. She averted her gaze to the floor and stood like a stone statue.

 _'That’s right. You should be ashamed._ ’ Whispered his thoughts.

“Canfeza."The name slipped from his tongue like silk, he watched as her breasts heaved against the bodice of her gown. The woman looked up, taking in the lines of his face, the light as it played upon the fabric of his obsidian coat.

"Sir,”

“Is unimpressed.” He finished, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence.

Again she dropped her eyes.

“Come here.” Quiet command, steel in his voice. Ice in his glare. Languished in elegance against the warm leather he reclined, separating his thighs as he sat, just a fraction further. The lady did not move. So he did, raising his brow slightly in question. That was all she needed.

She crossed the floor in swift steps; the room filled with the swish of her gown and the scent of her perfume until she came to a standstill at his very feet. Two paces away. Clever.

“Please….” She breathed at last. Like a prayer by way of initiating her submission.

“That’s twice you’ve kept me waiting.” Her throat moved, he watched her swallow and continued.

“Well?”

“That blow was never meant for you, Sire.” She began by way of apology. Her voice lilting. Honest. Faithful. He appreciated the tone. She continued, meeting his gaze fully.

“Believe me when I tell you I lost track of your shadow, I would…. I would have taken those bullets for you a thousand times over if it meant your lips were never marred by blood.”

“I get it.” He cut her off, again. “Too much noise, you get distracted and pull a strike that splits my lower lip. As if I’ve not got enough battle scaring, you feel the need to add to the canvas.”

“No, Sir never!”

“Shut up.” He snapped. The command like a whip crack of leather. She fell silent at once, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress a whimper.

“Rules and consequences.” He voiced the phrase like a mantra. She replied the same like a hymen in a church pew, looking upon him as though he were Christ.

Never a messiah. But a fallen angel, his dark wings bloody and torn. He reached up then, his right hand warm though the room was cool, and took hold of her throat beneath his palm. Holding her a moment… feeling the pulse of her heart accelerate, her lips drop open, the shine of her hidden tongue. Her eyes screamed for mercy as he pulled her to him with such force, she had no choice but to fall to her knees. Her dress though elegant restricted her movements like the kiss of black rope.

His lips mere millimetres from hers.

“Please…” She breathed, bridling beneath his fingers, “If I begged forgiveness…would you..”

“Forgive you?” His lips grazed her cheek. He held her steady resting his forearm against the tops of her heaving breasts. He could, if he wanted to. Break that beautiful white neck. She knew it. But his desires were elsewhere.

“Maybe.” He whispered, his warm lips trailing to the lobe of her ear. His fingers loosening so that the blood began to flow again. The imprint of his dominance marred her skin a moment before returning to its ivory beauty.

“If you set the mood.” He pressed, “I might change my mind.”

He pulled away then, sitting back against the leather. His elbows seeking the back of the lounge, his body language open, the threat passed like a wave. He had her. Checkmate. She knew her place.

_'Your move Black Queen’_

She stayed on her knees, crimson nailed fingers weighed the plush carpet. She fought the desire to touch the black leather of his French shoes.

“I cannot… must not.” She breathed feeling his eyes on her exposed spine, trailing the lines of the corset lacing of her designer gown.

“This is business.” He pressed her, “Always has been, always will be.”

“Then Sir, let me pay you in coin.” She retorted, breaking the barrier, seduced by his flame, a great moth. She burned when her hands touched his knees over tapered black gabardine.

“I want flesh.” He shot back. The admission stole the air from her lungs. Canfeza grasped him to steady herself now. The frantic whites of her eyes darting about the floor. Her panic rearing. How would she save herself from this man? This Master?

“Mine?” She whispered, tears threatening.

“Yes.” A bullet.

“Now?”

“Next week.” Two bullets. Loaded with sarcasm.

In that very moment, he was a blur of movement. He rose to his feet, a dancer across the carpet, reversing their positions. She was powerless against him. The way he touched her before she could think he’d thrust her face forward upon the lounge so as she had no choice but to put out her hands to save her delicate nose from colliding with the leather.

“Stay.” He hissed behind her. She froze a moment. Lowering her head just slightly. There on the leather, she could breathe in the scent of his musky cologne. She steadied herself, though the rapidity in her breaths betrayed her excitement. My God. The shame of it…

 _'Please,’_ She prayed in her darkest thoughts. _'I want this…. I need it.’_ Her thighs squeezed together tighter beneath the confines of the silk and taffeta layers of her gown.

And then she heard it…. That sound…. That glorious, incredible sound. The clink of metal as the buckle was slipped free. The hiss of leather as it was slid from the loops of his trousers’ waistline.

Behind her, John worked the belt buckle into a loop around his palm, then brought the leather band back along his left hand, preparing the strike. Calculating.

He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need it.

The belt cut through the air like a knife. The crack impacted upon the peerless flesh of her exposed shoulder blades, kissing the skin in an instant then rebounding back to his waiting palm.

The cry that came after tore from her throat in a shudder of hot, wet pleasure. He waited, rearing as her fingers dug into the leather and she gave over to a shimmering sigh. Submission. To him.

This was foreplay. And he loved it.

Again. Like lightning he struck her, watching her body resist the kiss of the belt. So satisfying. No crop or whip ever seemed to afford this kind of decadent pleasure.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

She moaned hotly, her body shuddering. Fingers set to claws as the tears that had threatened finally spilt over.

_SNAP._

She collapsed with a galvanic peel of agony that left her raw throat like a tortured song.

Enough. He lowered his belt and surveyed the damage. So fragile, this flower. Fuck. He’d broken the skin.

An eye for an eye. She’d given him one blow…. He repaid her with six. Deep. No mercy. No regret.

This was just business.

He turned away, sighing deeply. The coil of tension that had troubled him in the base of his spine released at last. Deft fingers replaced the leather to his hips. Vindicated, satisfied deeply, revelling in the sheer pleasure of release as he straddled the floor of his room and unlocked the door, holding it open.

“Thanks for your time, Ms. Patrone.” Always the gentleman.

“Now get out.” 

**Author's Note:**

> ‘John Wick: Altum VI’ was written on request for the famous John Wick blog: ‘John Wick Thirst Club’


End file.
